Duty or Love
by bookworm7117
Summary: "I'm here now, Sansa. I'll stay here," he said. "For duty or for love?" she mused with a smile. He returned it with a small smile, "For both maybe." One-shot drabbles revolving around Jonsa. Not all are romantic, some political Jon, some with Daenerys or Ygritte. All work toward a Jonsa endgame in some way. Canon World.
1. Alive

It was a cold winter night. The stars were out shining bright even as the cruel wind howled.

Sansa sat in her room. She watched the wind blow the trees outside. She stared intently as one such tree bent and bent and bent under the pressure of the strong winds. She found herself wanting it to snap. She wanted it to break and tumble to the ground. It seemed all her frustration and tension she had directed on to this one tree, and if only it could tumble to the ground perhaps she could find some relief.

A knock on the door startled her. She turned away from the window. She was only dressed in her thin night clothes, and her long braid had been taken out to reveal wild and wavy red hair. Sansa moved toward the door and opened it.

Jon's brow furrowed, "I thought we might talk."

Sansa was caught off-guard by this nighttime intrusion. She hadn't a clue what they had to discuss that couldn't wait for the day. But she let him in and shut the door behind him. She sat on her bed and draped her thick fur blankets around her.

Jon cautiously took a seat at her desk. He was also not dressed. He wore his night clothes with on over. He cleared his throat as he looked down at the ground. Sansa stared intently at him with a growing confusion. His nervousness unsettled her. This was not the Jon she had come to know. This was not the Jon who raised his voice at her and argued with her and wouldn't listen to her.

She had grown used to their banter. The way she could send a splitting insult his way; the way she could honestly critique his decisions and actions. She had not had such freedom in all her life. She had not met a man who would let her speak her mind anywhere in the capital or even the North. Jon had not been exactly thrilled with all of her interjections and questions and accusations. There had been one or two times she might have overstepped when all the lords and ladies were gathered before their King in the North Jon Snow and his own sister doubted him or poked holes in his decisions. She knew that causing unrest would be detrimental to their reign.

Jon finally looked up and his eyes met hers. She saw so much pain in him. There was regret and uncertainty and doubt and loss and pain. She wondered if her eyes reflected the same things. Perhaps his were just mirroring her own.

"I... I have always thought I wasn't a proud man. I've seen pride kill a man and endanger many others. I don't want to be a proud man or king," he paused, catching her eye again. "But I have been proud. I haven't listened to you, and-"

"Jon, you aren't proud-" Sansa frowned.

"But I am. And it's kept me awake tonight. Knowing that I never really apologized. The Battle for Winterfell was your victory. I should've listened to you. I was dismissive, and part of that..." he sighed, "Part of that is because I still don't want to be..."

"King?" She nodded. She knew that Jon never wanted a throne.

"Alive," he spoke barely above a whisper. It was a quiet confession, something he hadn't really told anyone before.

"Jon?" Sansa gasped. Her body tensed.

He sighed again, scrambling for the words to explain, "I died, Sansa. More than that I was murdered. I fought for what I thought was right. I tried to do the right thing, to help people, to prepare for the coming war. And I got stabbed in the heart by a boy."

"But you were brought back for a reason, Jon. Ser Davos-" she insisted.

"I lost. How can I fight more when I've already lost?" his eyes found the ground.

"Jon..." she shook her head violently.

"I told you before: I'm tired. I feel... drained. But you-you wanted to fight. You asked me to fight. And I couldn't walk away from you. So here I sit King in the North, and I never wanted it. I did it all for you. When you undermine me, well..." he raised his voice, animated.

She narrowed her eyes.

"It makes me wonder why I'm here," he breathed out. Another confession. "But it's not your fault."

Her look softened, "Jon..." She had thought to say _Jon, you're here because I need you. I couldn't survive without you. Please don't feel this way._ She wanted to console him. She wanted to be gentle and kind and show him compassion. But she stopped herself. She thought a moment and then her eyes narrowed again. Perhaps he didn't need tears and soft words.

She threw off the furs and stood before him confidently, "Jon Snow. You're not a boy anymore. Stop sulking around like the bastard of Winterfell. So you lost. You were stabbed in the heart by a little boy. You were also brought back to life by a priestess who believes in you. The wildlings believe in you. They trust in you. They fought and died for you. The North believes in you. They fight for you. They hailed you King in the North. All these people believe in you. Believe you are fighting for what is right. You act like a rotten loser. You lost, yes. But look at what all you have won."

Her words had cut him, deep. There was a fire brimming behind his eyes. He stood up to face her, "Aye, this may be true but you have no idea what it's like to die and come back."

She met his gaze, "And you have no idea what it's like to be raped."

His mouth closed. A shock washed over his face. He knew, of course, but she had never been so straightforward with him.

Sansa noticed a flash of pain in his eyes, and she knew she hurt him with these words. It hurt him to know he couldn't protect her. It hurt him that she had been hurt. She softened and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Jon, a terrible thing happened. I know it must be hard. And if you want to talk about it, we can. But you are still alive. You have to live. You have to want to be alive. You can't keep clinging onto your death. You must move forward. And yes, you must fight. Because you're Jon Snow, and you're a fighter."

He looked down, "We've lost so much."

"But I need you to help me fight for what we have," she stared him down, catching his brown eyes.

He nodded slowly and gave her a hug.

"I accept your apology," she said.

He chuckled in her ear. The sound made her smile as they pulled apart.

She hadn't known Jon much when they were children. He was the outsider. Her mother never liked him, and Sansa wanted to be just like her mother. When she had realized what Jon's presence meant-that her father had been with another woman, not her mother, it shattered her view of her parents' romance. She nearly despised Jon Snow for what he represented. But nonetheless, she knew he was family. Distant family, but family. When her family grew scarce, she found all she had was the bastard she had wanted nothing to do with. Seeing him at Castle Black had been strange because he was both entirely foreign and familiar. He had grown into a man that barely resembled the bastard boy she had barely known. She had been so broken and used that it didn't matter what had happened in the past between them, Jon felt like home to her.

She had been enjoying getting to know him for really the first time over the past few months. He was more confident than he used to be, much more so in fact. There were subtle things he did, little gestures and phrases and smiles that reminded her of father. She mused sometimes that of all her brothers he might actually be the most like father in the end. She had been struck by the pain in his eyes; she could tell he had lost so much as she had and that he had seen terrible things. But this was the first time she fully understood that pain. The first time he had truly opened up about it with her.

She found herself wanting to do the same.

Sansa moved back to her bed and covered herself up in the furs. She gestured for Jon to sit beside her. He hesitated, looking at the chair by the desk. But when Sansa offered him a fur blanket, he sat beside her.

"You know, I tried once," she said looking down at her arm.

He frowned, "Tried what?"

She turned her arm over and stroked a scar along her wrist, "To not be alive."

Jon reached for her arm. He softly touched the scar.

"I'm glad Ramsay caught me. Even though he punished me. Because now I'm here, and he's in the bellies of his precious hounds," she met Jon's eyes. "You're not allowed to leave me."

And they both understood what she really meant.

Jon nodded, "I would never."

"Good."

"Sansa, I'm-"

"Don't say sorry. You didn't do anything."

Jon looked down. He let her arm go. They sat in quiet silence for a minute.

"Have you ever been in love?" Sansa asked quietly. "I used to dream about it all the time. I wanted what mother and father had. I thought it would be so easy to have."

He smirked, "Aye. I have."

That wasn't the answer Sansa was expecting. She grinned and turned to him, "With who? I want to hear all about this mystery girl. This must have been before you took the black, right? Did I know her?"

Jon laughed, "It was after. She was a wildling. Ygritte."

Sansa smiled at the way Jon's eyes lit up. She hadn't seem him look actually happy in a while, "What was she like? How did you meet?"

He laughed, "One question at a time. I was beyond the wall on a mission. When we found her, I was supposed to kill her. But I couldn't do it. I kept her prisoner until her people jumped me. That's when I met Tormund and Mance. She vouched for me with them. And for a while, I was part of the freefolk as a spy sort of for the Night's Watch and she was... my woman."

"What was she like?"

"Well, she had fiery red hair and a quick wit. She was beautiful and wild, and an excellent shot. She could wield a bow and arrow better than anyone else in Mance's whole army. In fact when I had to escape the freefolk and go back to Castle Black she shot me with four arrows. Each one perfectly placed to not kill me. She was outspoken and stubborn. She loved to tease me. And she made me laugh."

Sansa gasped, "Jon snow laughing?"

He laughed, "She used to tell me "you know nothin' Jon Snow." all the time."

Sansa smiled, "I wish I could have met her."

Jon was lost in thought. "We shared a night in a cave. It was... perfect. And sometimes I still wish I could go back."

"What happened to her?" Sansa was scared to ask. She didn't want Jon's smile to go away. And yet it did.

"When Mance's army invaded Castle Black, she found me. She had readied her bow and arrow at me. But I didn't care. I was just happy to see her again. I would've died happy right then and there if she wanted me to. But she was shot in the back," Jon choked on the last part a little bit.

Sansa reached for his hand.

"I held her in my arms as she passed and I promised her we would go back to the cave. And then I built her a pyre north of the wall."

"I'm sorry you lost her."

"There was this thing Maester Aemon used to say. 'What is honor compared to a woman's love?"' Jon frowned. "I chose honor. And she died. And I died. What if I had chosen love?"

"You'd both probably still be dead, except you might not have come back," Sansa frowned. She did not want him to keep questioning himself. She didn't want him to feel guilt or more pain, and she definitely didn't want him to wish he was dead.

"I might prefer that alternative," Jon shrugged.

"Well I don't," Sansa squeezed his hand. "You promised."

"I'm here now, Sansa. I'll stay here," he met her gaze seriously.

She nodded. She believed he wouldn't lie to her. He was perhaps the only one she believed wouldn't. She trusted no one, and yet she was beginning to place a lot of trust in him. She hoped it would not be a fatal mistake, and somehow she knew it wouldn't be. Jon could never hurt her. She didn't know him terribly well although she was starting to, but she did know that much.

"For duty or for love?" she mused with a smile.

He gave a small smile, "For both maybe."


	2. Home

The war was over. The world was reduced to rubble and ash. Sansa stood where Winterfell used to be. The only sign of her home was the large Weirwood tree. She found comfort in spending time there.

Almost everyone Sansa ever knew was gone. They fought for her and died for her and left her in a world that she was supposed to rebuild. She felt guilty at times. She couldn't fight. She couldn't help win the battle of the living and the dead. So she felt it was her duty to rebuild the world - to do something. She couldn't let all their deaths be for nothing. She had to make the world a better place. She had to keep living for them. Even when she wished she was dead.

Her sister, Arya, was gone. Bran, too, was gone... in a different way. He wasn't really Bran, and he couldn't stay with her. He wasn't really her brother anymore, but she didn't really understand who or what he was. He was just... unfamiliar. She'd lost her other brothers long before the real war had begun as well as her mother and father. Even Theon was gone.

Her friends were dead too. Brienne. Podrick. Hodor. Tyrion. Ser Davos. Tormund. And countless others. She hated to think of the way some of them died. When the bodies couldn't be burned fast enough and her loved ones had become her enemies.

The two great queens had fallen as well. The only solace being that this new world she was to build was free from Cersei's evil grasp.

Most of the time Sansa couldn't fathom how she had survived. Why her?

But she knew how. Jon. And Brienne and Arya and others. They had kept her safe, and most had paid with their lives. The guilt threatened to suffocate her.

She looked up at the big Weirwood tree. It's long branches still intact. She felt it was a kindred spirit. It shouldn't have survived and yet it did. They suffered the same fate. The last ones standing in Winterfell. Left to a world they didn't want to be in anymore.

"Sansa," A voice called out to her, reminding her that she wasn't alone.

Jon strode up beside her. He placed an arm around her.

"It's not home anymore," she said to him, staring him in the eyes.

A deep sadness washed over him, "Winterfell will always be our home."

She laced her fingers in Jon's. She hadn't spent any time apart from him since the war had ended. She was terrified to let him out of her sight. Her last friend. Her last family member. He wasn't her half-brother anymore. Jon was her cousin. A realization that made it easier for them to be the last two people in the North. Of course, she was exaggerating, but it often did seem that way. They had won the war, but at a great cost.

Even at night Sansa would not be without Jon. He didn't ever protest either. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to lose her. Because the truth for both of them was that they had no home except each other. So they would fall asleep together and wake up together. It was never anything more. He wasn't quite her brother anymore. She didn't see him as that. She just saw him as home.

They had grown more and more comfortable around each other. More and more comfortable holding hands. Hugging. More comfortable with their arms around each other than they were without. It was lonely being alive. Everywhere they looked reminded them of all they had lost.

They began rebuilding Winterfell. Stone by stone. As best as they could remember. The North had been hit the hardest by the war. Survivors from all over gathered together in the ruins of Winterfell and helped build something new but also old. When it was finally constructed after months of hard labour, Sansa presented Jon with a surprise.

"It was difficult but I scrounged enough supplies," she said, holding up a banner.

She had stitched two images. A dragon and a wolf. It was intricate and beautiful. The designs were different from the typical Targaryen dragon or the Stark wolf. The wolf and the dragon seemed natural together. They fit.

"Sansa, this is beautiful."

"I'm glad you like it."

"Are you sure that... Winterfell should have a dragon-"

"You're the Lord of Winterfell, Lord Aegon," she teased.

Jon groaned. "I'm just Jon," he added with a laugh.

"You're the last Targaryen and the second to last Stark. And you're the heir to the Iron Throne," she rolled her eyes.

"I believe that melted," he pointed out.

She sighed, exasperated.

"I don't want all seven kingdoms, and the seven kingdoms don't want me. We're doing good just to rebuild the North."

"If you don't take them, someone else will," she warned.

"Will it be you?" he grinned.

She narrowed her eyes and gave a playful smile, "Maybe!"

He shook his head, grinning, "Come on. Let's go to bed."

Sansa blew out the candle and climbed into bed beside Jon. They had formed an unbreakable habit of sleeping together, and they didn't care anymore what others thought. There were so few others to have thoughts anyway.

Jon lay on his side facing away from her. Sansa wrapped her arm around him and laid her face near his neck. Her body was curled up tightly against his. Jon stiffened a little at the contact initially. She hadn't done this before. But he'd stiffened the first time she took his hand, and now he would take her hand on his own.

Sansa had started to wonder about kissing Jon. She thought after Joffrey and Ramsay she'd never want to marry again, never want to entertain the idea of being with a man again. But she had been sleeping beside Jon, holding Jon's hand, keeping his confidence for months and before that she'd been by his side. Finding out he was her cousin had shifted something in her brain only slightly. It had cracked open a door that had been previously shut. Losing everyone she loved had shoved it open a little more. And every single gesture with increasingly comfortability had inched it more and more open.

She wasn't blind anymore. She could see Jon for what he was. His curly locks. His scruffy beard. His intense and pain-stricken eyes. He was brave, and gentle, and strong. He was a warrior and a leader. A protector and a friend. He had honor.

In her arms, though, he didn't have to be an heir to a throne or bigger than life. He didn't have to be the man who was resurrected. He could rest in her arms. She could give him comfort. She liked this feeling of someone so strong being so vulnerable for her.

Her hand found his scar on his chest. She could feel it through his thin shirt. Jon had been the last person she expected to return alive. He had died once before, and she was sure he wouldn't be able to cheat death once again. But she had been wrong. He stroked the raised scar. She loved it. She loved that in so many ways they were the same. They both had scars. They both had pain. They both wanted desperately to make their lives count. They needed some kind of happiness to come from all the terror.

"Jon?" she asked quietly. Her breath hot against his neck.

"Mm?"

She frowned. He was already falling asleep. She thought quickly. Sansa placed a small kiss on his neck. It was enough to stir him. Her heart raced. She hadn't done that before. Jon had only ever kissed her on the forehead.

"I don't ever want to leave Winterfell," she said, seriously.

"I know," he frowned, still a little sleepy. "I don't want to either."

She pulled his body toward her, trying to get him to face her. He complied.

"Do you think we deserve to be happy?" she asked quietly.

He frowned and brought a hand to her cheek gently, "Of course."

She took a deep breath. "I-I never wanted... I never wanted to get married again... After Ramsay. I-I didn't think I would want to. Or that I would want children."

"You want to get married?" Jon's heart started racing. He didn't want her to get married. He didn't want her to leave him. He didn't want to stop sleeping beside her. He didn't know if he could even fall asleep without her anymore.

She shook her head, "No, I-I never want to get married... unless it's with you." The last part was barely above a whisper.

Sansa stared in his eyes, hoping and praying that he wouldn't turn her away. He stared back with confusion and uncertainty. He wasn't sure he had really heard her right.

"Me?"

Sansa's heart sank. She broke eye contact and scrambled for an explanation. Of course he wouldn't want to marry her. He probably still saw her as a sister. She shouldn't have been thinking about him in the ways she had. She shouldn't have thought about locking her fingers in his curly black hair. Or how the scruff of his beard would feel in between her thighs. She shouldn't have spent so much time looking at his lips and wondering what they would taste like.

"Well... we're cousins not brother and sister. And we have a duty to-to further the Stark and Targaryen lines. We sleep in the same bed. We both want to stay here. Together. It's-it's... practical?"

"Practical," Jon frowned.

"We don't have to... it was just a thought-"

Sansa was interrupted by Jon's lips. He pinned her against the bed. One hand in her hair, the other on her hip. He kissed her hard and passionately. She was gasping for air when he pulled away.

"I don't want it to be practical," Jon nearly growled in her ear. His hot breath on her neck and scruff sending shivers down her spine.

She gasped and bit her lip. Her head was spinning. She mused, "Impractical then?"

"Exactly," he grinned against her neck. Then returned to kissing her.

But this time he kissed down her neck. He pulled her night clothes off. And continued kissing. Down her chest. To her breasts. Down her stomach. Further and further. Till he landed where he wanted to be all along. And she found out what his scruff would feel like in between her thighs.

As he kissed her Sansa laughed, "Very, very impractical."

"Absurd really," she continued.

"Some might say ill-oh-logical."

He looked up at her from between her legs, "Are you quite done yet?"

She nodded as he continued.

At the end of the night, they lay forehead to forehead. Both completely naked with their legs intertwined.

Jon kissed her forehead, "You feel like... home."

She smiled, "I love you too."

"Sometimes I feel guilty," Jon started.

"We all feel guilty, Jon," Sansa said.

"But I feel guilty because... if not for the war and everyone being gone... I don't think we would be this close. And I feel guilty for being happy it all happened. Even just for one second."

"I understand," she smiled sadly.

They laid in quiet silence for a little while. Until Jon broke it, "You never properly asked me."

"What are you talking about?"

"To marry you," he grinned.

Sansa rolled her eyes, "You should be asking me."

"Maybe not," he laughed. "We live in a new world. A world we get to rebuild. Maybe in this world you do the asking."

It was just a lighthearted joke. But Sansa smiled genuinely. He was right. And she felt more hopeful than ever.

"Jon Snow, Jon Stark, Jon Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell, Protector of the Seven Realms-" she began teasingly.

Jon groaned.

"Will you marry me?" she bit her lip. Somehow even though she was pretty sure she knew the answer there was a knot in her stomach out of nervousness.

He kissed her, "Yes."


	3. Reunion

Their reunion had been emotional. The remaining Starks all home in Winterfell. The wolf pack together at last. Now the four of them ate dinner together in Sansa's solar. They'd been secluded for hours. Jon had wanted to know every detail of Arya's story, and she in return wanted to know how a member of the Night's Watch became Lord Commander and then deserted to become the King in the North.

Sansa had already heard their stories, and yet their closeness brought out new revelations. Arya wasn't afraid to ask Jon about his time with the wildlings and push him to answer more questions about a woman name Ygritte. It made Sansa and Jon blush when he finally admitted that he had been in love with Ygritte and she'd been his first. Arya didn't seem phased. She enjoyed teasing her brother, and she didn't seem to have any reservations about certain topics of conversation or language. She'd become hardened in her years.

Sansa knew the story of Jon's death and resurrection well. He'd still been in pieces when she had found him at the wall; the wounds fresh and the memory of hanging a boy echoing in his mind. He'd been ready to give up. He'd been confused about why he had come back to life, and once he confessed to Sansa that seeing her come through those gates gave him a purpose. He'd realized he was back so that she wouldn't have to be alone.

She felt similarly. If she was honest, seeing Jon at the wall had saved her. If she had gone all the way there only to discover he'd died, she knew she would have given up. She wouldn't have been able to press on because she would have thought she was the last Stark in the world. They didn't talk about Sansa's story much. She gave a few details, things that Arya didn't know, but they both knew about Ramsey and it wasn't worth recounting again. Jon already knew most of her story, she realized halfway through telling Arya about her marriage to Tyrion and how the Hound saved her, because he was a great listener.

Upon the mention of Tyrion, Arya was reminded of the Dragon Queen.

"They say she's really beautiful," she hinted, staring teasingly at Jon.

He shrugged, "Aye."

"I was wondering if you bent the knee in more way than one?" she was toying with him. Somehow she felt like the older sister in the moment. How was a little sister managing to make her older brother uncomfortable so easily?

"Arya!" Sansa scolded as her and Jon's cheeks flared red. Despite herself, Sansa couldn't help but perk up. She had been curious about this subject as well although she would never have the nerve to ask outright like Arya... well unless she had been particularly furious with him. When they were bickering it seemed anything could find its way onto her tongue.

"I-I-I should not be discussing such things with my little sisters."

"Spare me, Jon," Arya rolled her eyes.

Sansa suddenly found her blood boiling. He had! If this had affected his decision to bend the knee to her, she would... "You are the King in the North! I keep telling you you have to be smarter. I know you have a brain somewhere under those thick curls, you need to use it instead of thinking with your-your-" She couldn't manage to finish it, but luckily she didn't have to.

"Cock," Arya smirked.

"I bent the knee to her before all that," he defended himself. "She's a good queen."

"Mhm," Arya laughed.

Jon abruptly changed the subject and started asking Arya about her travels and adventures.

Jon had pressed Arya further than she had. Sansa had become a bit afraid of her stone cold killer sister. The look in her eyes was so unfamiliar and deadly. But Jon could see little cracks in Arya's exterior that she hadn't been able to, and somehow he was able to bring her walls down slightly. It was enough that even Sansa was starting to see real emotion: pain, regret, remorse, love in Arya's eyes. She spoke of Gendry, who had fought with Jon beyond the wall recently, and there was a glimmer there. It was something Sansa hadn't ever remembered seeing in her sister before, and it reminded her that Arya was a young woman now. None of them were children anymore.

It was good to have them both home.

Tensions had been high between her and Arya when Jon was gone, and before that she and Jon had fought often. She hoped that she wouldn't be the odd man out now that they were reunited. She knew that Arya had always been Jon's favorite sister and he was secretly her favorite brother.

It was easy at times to forget about Bran. He remained silent often, and it was hard to look at his vacant eyes and know that their brother was gone. They were left with the Three Eyed Raven, and they didn't really have an understanding of what that meant. He briefly and vaguely explained to Jon how he had gone beyond the wall and met the Children of the Forest.

Jon smiled finally, a somewhat rare sight although not tonight, "What a sight we are. The Starks of Winterfell. A faceless assassin. The Three Eyed Raven-"

"A Lannister-Bolton-," Sansa smiled sadly.

"Lady Stark," Jon interrupted.

"And the Bastard King in the North," Arya smiled ruefully.

"Actually, Jon, I have wanted to talk to you about something," Bran stated matter of factly

"Bran we've been talking all night," Jon said.

"I was waiting. It seemed like you all needed time for a reunion," Bran explained, coldly.

The three of them looked at him. He really wasn't their brother anymore.

"Sam wanted to tell you because he thinks I'm too unfeeling, but-"

"Bran, what's going on?" Jon was on edge now.

"You are not a bastard, Jon," Bran stated, a far off look in his eyes.

"Of course I am. Catelyn was not my mother," he nearly rolled his eyes. It wasn't particularly fun for him to be reminded.

"No, she was not. And Ned Stark was not your father."

"Bran!" Sansa frowned.

"You are son of our aunt Lyanna Stark, Jon."

"I-I don't understand. That makes no sense, Ned claimed me-"

"He promised her to keep you safe. From King Robert and the rest of the world. Because you aren't Jon Snow. You are Aegon Targaryen," Bran stared seriously into Jon's eyes.

Jon searched him for any sign of a joke or misunderstanding. He couldn't fathom. He felt his heart racing in his chest. "I-I can't be. How could you know any of this-"

"I saw it all. I saw your father, Rhaegar Targaryen, annul his marriage and marry your mother. I saw her give birth and hand the child off to our father. He promised to keep you safe just before she died."

Jon stood up abruptly, "I-I need to... I..."

Sansa stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Jon..."

Emotion was thick in the air. He wasn't a Stark. Well, he was, but he wasn't... Ned Stark's son. He didn't have sisters or a brother. They were his cousins.

Somehow Arya found the humor in the moment, and she laughed out loud. They all turned to her as she explained, "You bedded your aunt!"

Jon's cheeks turned bright red.


	4. Happy Ending

The meeting was small and secluded. Their discussion needed to be kept private and away from prying eyes before they could figure out how to handle the situation. Jon sat the head of the table, the King in the North, newly Aegon Targaryen. On his right, his sister-cousin, the Lady of Winterfell. Beside her was their sister, his cousin, the assassin. Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven, sat on his left with Bran beside him. Ser Davos paced behind him.

Directly across from him at their small table sat Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons, his aunt. The seat on her right was vacant as her Hand, Tyrion, was pouring himself another glass of wine. Ser Jorah sat on her left beside Missandei.

"You are my nephew?" the words held weight as their eyes met. Flashes of the nights they had shared before playing out in each of their minds.

In her eyes Jon only saw confusion. She was trying to decide how she felt about it. Did she care?

But in his eyes, she could see the shame and embarrassment.

It wasn't an honorable thing to bed your aunt. It wasn't an honorable thing to bed someone you weren't married to in the first place. He'd told her that she was only the second person he had been with, and she had been a little surprised. His _talents_ had been comparable to Daario's. Daario still may have been the most skilled lover she'd been with, she mused, but there was something about Jon that had made her feel things she hadn't felt since Drogo.

She'd asked him why he hadn't been with more women. Surely, he had the opportunity.

"I don't want to a father a bastard. I don't want my child to grow up feeling like they aren't good enough just because of the mistakes of their parents," he'd said.

The answer warmed her heart, and yet... "But _we_ aren't married."

Jon had blushed and avoided eye contact. He deflected, making a joke, "You said you can't have children."

As the Queen she refused such deflections. She forced their eyes to meet, "And if I can?"

Jon stared into her eyes for so long that she nearly got lost in them. She nearly forgot what she had asked. He simply said, "I won't father a bastard."

The words shook her. She understood what he meant: he'd marry her. It probably would have sent fury through her veins if anyone else had made such a bold statement. If anyone else but Jon Snow had declared that he wouldn't allow her to have a bastard, that he would marry her, she would have laughed in their face. She would have said she'd never belong to another man again. She'd snarl and declare that it was her body and her right to choose her own king consort.

But she didn't feel any of that queenly snarling. She didn't feel offended. His words had warmed her heart and terrified her at the same time. She'd broken eye contact and laid her head on his chest, tracing his scars.

Every time her fingers had grazed the raised moon-shaped scar over his heart she remembered that he was a man who had died and come back. It was something Drogo hadn't been able to do. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe she could let herself feel those things again.

And she could tell he was feeling something. The look in his eyes said enough. And his words said more.

Daenerys came back to the present. Her eyes flickered away from Jon's to the table. Her advisors and his advisors were going back and forth about if there was any proof and how they could know for sure and what it meant about the Iron Throne. She knew those things mattered, and he did too. But in those first few moments all she could think about was it meant for her heart.

"Enough," she finally said.

Tyrion gave her a knowing look as he downed his wine. He had already confronted her about her bedding choices, and she had seethed fire at him for spying on her. He'd reminded her that her choices in marriage would have political impacts, so it actually was his concern. Still, she'd breathed fire his direction. She regretted it now because after all, he'd been right. He had a habit of it.

"I believe you," she stated simply, nodding at Bran and Jon.

"As do I, my queen," Tyrion lilted.

"And I am happy to know I have family left in this world," she started.

"As am I, your grace-" Tyrion started, always the most verbal.

"A Targaryen in the world is a terrible thing," Jon mused. "Maester Aemon at the Night's Watch used to say that. He thought of you often. He was your, well, the brother of your great grandfather."

"And yours," she smiled. "Rather great great grandfather."

"This family reunion warms the heart, it really does, but I must insist we discuss the political implications," Tyrion piped up.

"I agree," Sansa affirmed.

Tyrion nodded at her in appreciation, "Jon is Aegon Targaryen the sixth, the seventh. The legitimate son of Rhaegar, your father's first son. And-"

"The rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Sansa finished with a steely gaze.

Tyrion nodded, sipping his wine. He wasn't sure how this was going to play out just yet.

Jon shot her a look. "Well I don't-I don't want it." He looked at Daenerys across the table, trying to show her he was earnest. All familiarity was gone in her expression. She was no longer his aunt or his lover or even friend. She was a Queen, a Dragon Queen.

"How can I be sure? You said vows to not own land, to never have a wife or children. You said you never wanted to be king. And yet, here you sit Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."

Jon's mouth was dry. He swallowed hard.

"I will rule the Seven Kingdoms. I was born to rule. Whether or not I am the first in line of succession, I was born for this," her words sliced through the air.

Jon didn't know what to say. He really didn't want the Iron Throne. He didn't want to live in King's Landing. He had barely wanted to take back his home, Winterfell. He wouldn't be King in the North, except for Sansa.

"You heard Jon. He doesn't want the Iron Throne," Sansa kept her voice level and calm but still firm. There was a bite to it that rivaled Daenerys'. But where Daenerys' emotions blazed on her face and her fire seared through others, Sansa brought a chill, a frost. A cool, calm sting like the winter winds.

"What he does want is the safety of the North and all its people," Sansa spoke for him, and Jon let her.

"As does my queen," Tyrion responded, trying to break the tension that was forming in the room.

"The North desires its independence," Sansa jutted out her chin.

Daenerys' eyes shot to Jon, narrowing, "Your King has already bent the knee to me."

"Aye, I did." Jon lowered his head. He was still trying to figure out what all of this meant.

"He bent the knee as Jon Snow," Sansa insisted. "Not as Aegon Targaryen the seventh, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

"You would take back your oath?" Daenerys snarled at Jon.

He shook his head, meeting her eyes, "No." But then he Sansa out of the corner of his eyes. He looked at her, and he remembered why he had taken the throne in the North to begin with. Jon had wanted to protect his family, to restore the Starks to their rightful place, to keep order, and to try to win the war to come. "No, I-I don't take it back, your grace. But... Daenerys this-this changes things. I don't want the Iron Throne. I don't want Westeros. You'll be a fair and just queen I have no doubt."

"And still you want independence? You'd rather not serve a fair and just queen?" she remarked with irritation growing.

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. "What I do know is that the Night King and his army are on their way. We all received word from Tormund. The wall has collapsed. They could be here any day. What I want is to survive the war. Who knows what will be left of Westeros to fight over."

"Perhaps, for the time being the King in the North can keep his oath to our queen, and after the war is won further negotiations can be revisited," Tyrion suggested, eyeing the queen with a twinge of nervousness. She could be rash and hotheaded. He hoped Jon hadn't angered her too much... or Sansa, who was becoming quite a formidable woman.

For what felt like an eternity, Daenerys shot Jon so fiery and violent he thought he would be swallowed in flames right then. But something subsided in her eyes, and she finally spoke, "Very well."

Jon nodded.

"There is another matter to discuss, your grace," Ser Jorah spoke up.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow, and he continued, "As you know, my home was here in the North long ago. I know these people. You talk of Northern independence under Lord Snow's-"

"His grace's," Arya corrected, speaking for the first time.

Ser Jorah nodded, "rule, of how the North does not want a Targaryen queen. Will they have a Targaryen king?"

"Jon is a Stark. He will always be a Stark. He's our cousin. The North remembers our Aunt Lyanna," Arya retorted.

It stung Jon to hear Arya call him cousin.

"Your grace," Ser Davos entered the conversation. "I share these concerns with Ser Jorah. How many of your lords and ladies have mentioned Ned Stark? That Ned Stark's blood runs in your veins? I fear they will not be so keen on Rhaegar Targaryen's blood."

"You're right," Jon considered. "They probably won't have me."

"If they know," Sansa interrupted.

Jon gave her a small smile, "I can't lie, Sansa. This secret must have eaten father-"

Jon faltered on the words. Sansa reached out to him, "He'll always be your father. He raised you. No one can take that away."

Jon continued, "It must have eaten him up inside. I can't have it lording over all our heads. One slip and we could all come crashing down. What would happen to you, and Arya and Bran, if they found out you had been harboring a secret Targaryen knowingly?"

Sansa looked down, knowing he was right. They couldn't contain this secret when so many people already knew, and Jon was not a good liar.

Tyrion set his wine glass down. He took a deep breath. His mind had been racing, and he had found a solution. It wasn't exactly pleasant to present, though, as he knew the objections in the room would not just come from the Starks, but from his own queen as well. "There is a way to keep the North."

Daenerys shot her head to Tyrion with a question. He replied to her unspoken question, "It is in our best interest to keep the North in the family, is it not?"

Daenerys thought for a moment, and she finally nodded to Tyrion to continue, "It is a rather unpleasant suggestion, I'm afraid. Although it wouldn't have been for my siblings."

He sighed, facing the King in the North. His eyes darted to Sansa for a moment, and he could swear she could read his mind. "But if there is to be a King in the North, he must be a-"

"Stark," Sansa interrupted. There was no surprise in her voice or confusion. It was as though she had already thought through the entire scenario, and she had already decided what she was going to do and how it was going to play out.

Arya sat back, she was starting to see what was going to unfold. Jon was still clueless and miserable. The last hour had been nothing but confusing and hurtful. He'd been reminded over and over again of what he had lost with this revelation.

Sam piped up hesitantly, wary of getting into family drama, "Forgive me, my lady, but he is a Stark. His mother was Lyanna Stark."

"It won't be enough," Sansa shook her head, and with a coldness she turned to Jon. "We will have to be married."

Jon shook his head in shock, "You're my sister."

"I'm your cousin now," she replied.

There was a chilling wall up between her interior emotions and exterior. Jon tried to break through it. He forced her eyes to meet his, "Sansa, you don't have to do this. You told me you never wanted to marry again, and I promised you, promised you, I wouldn't ever make a match for you."

"A foolish promise you couldn't have kept anyway," she shook her head.

"I would have," he insisted.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "Jon, this is what is best for our family. This is what is best for the North."

"I won't force you into a loveless marriage. Not again. Not ever," he was growing angrier with her calmness.

She expected this too, and she had an answer, "Do you not love me?" Her eyebrow raised.

Jon was flustered, "Well, of course I do... as a _brother_ , but-"

"That is more than I have ever been offered," she stated with ease. "If you cannot gain the support of the North, that will leave our House for the taking. I will be the prize of Winterfell. Any ambitious lord might make me his wife in order to secure the North. Can you promise they will all love me, even as family?"

"I would never let it happen-"

"Can you promise me I won't be raped? Or beaten? Or sliced open?" she was laying it on thick because this was important.

Pain was visible in his eyes. He hated being reminded of how he had failed to protect her, of all she had endured. He opened his mouth, but he had no response.

"You can't, can you? But you can promise me that _you_ won't do any of those things," she said.

"Of course," he said immediately. "But you don't have to marry me, I would never let you get married to someone like that-"

"What will you do, Jon? If you can't secure the North you won't be safe. None of us will."

"I will always protect you, Sansa, I-"

"I told you before. No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone. But this, Jon, this will help."

"You really want this?" he said quietly, sitting back into his seat. His mind was racing. He couldn't imagine wedding his sister or how she could want this.

"I do," she relaxed a bit, realizing she might have won.

The rest of the room was tense. Tyrion nodded his approval toward Sansa. She was making a fine lady, a fine strategist, a fine politician. Arya was studying Sansa carefully. She was impressed with her sister's intellect and how she seemed to be three steps ahead of the rest of them. But she also knew deep down Sansa couldn't want to get married again, even if it was to Jon, especially if it was to Jon, her brother. Arya shuddered at the thought of having to marry Jon. He was only her big brother in her eyes. It couldn't be an option for her. Never. She wondered if Sansa and Jon had been distant enough as children that it wouldn't make them quite so sick to their stomachs.

Then Arya turned to her brother. She could see him starting to come around to the idea, even though he really didn't want to. He was so concerned with what Sansa wanted and what would be the best for the family. He wouldn't even consider his own feelings. Jon had loved before. Sansa never had, so maybe she thought this was the best she could hope for. It likely was. But Jon... he had a taste of a different life. One where duty wouldn't rule and one where love could.

Jon finally looked up and locked eyes with Daenerys. There was an unspoken conversation between them. She was trying to watch it play it as a queen, reserved and royal. But there was just the slight crack in her exterior, and he could see that she, Daenerys, didn't want him to go through with it. As the queen, she could see the sense in it.

She loved him.

He loved her.

But neither of them was sure how deep and how true that love was. Was it enough? He said it himself that he would never want the Iron Throne, not as the king and not as her king consort. He couldn't live in the capital. His place was in the North. She couldn't rule the seven kingdoms from the North. They both knew that.

To make matters more complicated, they were still related. Aunt and Nephew. Although Daenerys supposed in the face of marrying his half-sister turned cousin, what they had done probably didn't seem as dishonorable anymore. Either way it would be wrong and right in different ways.

She found herself wanting to choose her, despite herself. She wanted him to love her enough to give up his home, his family, his position, his power. And yet even as she wanted all of that, she knew that if he did that he wouldn't be himself. It was impossible.

Jon was torn. He felt a duty to Sansa. She had brought him back to life, not in the physical sense, but she'd given him purpose. She'd helped him carry on when he felt he couldn't. She was his half-sister, well cousin. He felt a responsibility to his father-uncle to take care of her. And he loved her as family. He couldn't imagine a world in which she was forced to endure anything similar to what she already had, and if he could make sure that would never happen... shouldn't he?

But he also knew she wouldn't love him, and that made him sad. If Sansa never knew what love was that would be a terrible fate. He knew what it was. And he felt himself torn, too, because he wanted to be in love again. He didn't want to marry for duty or honor or political reasons.

Jon remembered Ygritte. He'd chosen honor and duty over his love for her. He'd kept his vows to the Night's Watch and chosen them ultimately. That choice put her in danger and it cost her her life. Sometimes he wished he'd made a different choice. Sometimes he wished he wasn't a servant to honor and that he could have run off with Ygritte. Back to the cave. Would they have been happy? Would she still be alive?

If he chose love this time, he would abandon his family and the North. He would put them at risk, and he would put himself in a position he truly didn't think he could stand. King's Landing was no place for him.

He wished he had more time. He wished he could talk to his family and to Daenerys separately. He needed her to know that he loved her no matter what he chose.

Jon found Daenerys' eyes again. He remembered their nights together, and he realized he couldn't make his decision yet. There was another matter of love and duty entirely that none of them knew yet. He could never marry Sansa if Daenerys was pregnant, and he had bed her just days ago. If she was pregnant, he would have no choice left. He would be the father to his child, whatever that meant.

He knew, though, that neither woman would like his answer, "I cannot marry you."

Sansa started to protest.

"Yet," he finished. "I-I have to wait to know if..."

Jon couldn't complete his thought. He wasn't sure what would be the best way to say he wanted to know if he had knocked up the Dragon Queen in front of all her advisors and his.

Daenerys knew exactly what he was going to say, and it made her blood boil. She was furious. He would try to marry her _only_ for the child. She wasn't enough. She didn't want him under those circumstances. And now she wondered if what she had found so endearing and loving earlier, the promise of marriage if she was with child, was simply only about duty.

"You will marry Sansa Stark and secure the North for your Queen," she raised her chin, addressing him as a subject.

He was confused, "Daenerys, you know I can't. I have to know if you're-"

"That matter will never concern you. You will do your duty to your Queen who you bent the knee to," she said, knowing she would not have a child. If she did somehow, she could marry or... the thought seemed unspeakable but she could get rid of it. She would not have need of a husband who dragged his feet to be with her. She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, and she would not live with his reluctance and call it love. She didn't want him to do his duty and call it love. Perhaps it was selfish or too human or perhaps it was the true spirit of the dragon and a queen.

Jon bowed his head. The love he had seen in her eyes seemed to harden into something else. He couldn't argue with her here, but he was going to get her alone as soon as he could.

As the meeting adjourned, Jon sat there alone, unable to move.

He didn't notice that Sansa had stayed behind.

He gave her a weak smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He was still so confused. He still couldn't imagine them being married. What would father think?

"I know," she started nervously, and he looked up, surprised to hear emotion come back into her voice. "I know that you love her. I know that you thought you could marry someone you love... and I'm sorry that you'll have to settle for me."

He got up and hugged Sansa. She felt like home, and once again he was reminded of how he had done everything since his death for her. She didn't make him do it. She would have taken Winterfell without him, but he had wanted to stay with her. He didn't want to be alone, and when he was around her, he didn't feel like the Lord Commander or the "god" risen from the dead, or the King in the North, or even the bastard of Winterfell. She looked at him like he was the last of all she had, and he supposed for awhile he was.

"Sansa, you should know what love is, I want that for you," he said, pulling back a little.

She laughed a little, bitter, "Jon, I will be happy just to be your equal. To not live in fear or in pain. It won't be easy being married, and you might never love me. We won't have to consummate the marriage right away. Eventually we would need an heir, though, you understand."

Jon sighed, he really didn't like the way she was so practical and dejected about it all. He hated feeling like he was the one who was disappointing her, "Sansa-"

"I survived bedding Ramsey. Nothing could be worse than that, I'm sure," she thought that would comfort him.

She was surprised when Jon's eyes seemed to light up with fury. He nearly growled and shook her slightly. His grip on her was tight, "I promise you-"

Sansa had thought through every scenario of this situation. In none of them did she imagine seeing Jon so heated. She had no idea what was going through his head, "You can't protect me, if-"

He cut her off, "I promise you. That I will try to love you... if we are to be married. I will try to-to make you happy. Really happy. Not... this bland life you think you deserve after him."

His intensity took her breath away. She opened her mouth to respond, but she found she couldn't. There was nothing to say to that.

Jon kissed her forehead and left her standing there.

Sansa realized that she would do the same thing for him. She would try to love him. She would try to make him happy. The way that Ygritte had. The way that Daenerys had. Jon put honor and duty first again. She wanted to be able to reward him with love.

For the first time in a very long time, Sansa thought she might, maybe just maybe, deserve something reminiscent of a happy ending.


	5. To Lose You Can't Afford To

Sansa didn't want him to leave.

She remembered her father riding South for a King, and she remembered the way he lost the game. Joffrey had made sure the image of her father's head on a spike was seared into her memory.

She remembered hearing of Robb's advances. He rode South as a King, and he never lost a battle. It wasn't enough for him to survive, though, because he didn't play the game either. He only played one part of it: the obvious part, the part with soldiers and bannerman and battlefields.

She played the game. She had to. Cersei had showed her how. Littlefinger had taught her even more. And now she looked back on her childhood and the mistakes of her father and brother. She could see where they had failed; it seemed obvious now.

Sansa waited outside Jon's chambers. One last ditch effort to get him to listen to her, to change his mind, to stay.

When he emerged, he rolled his eyes. A sullen expression replacing his surprise, "I have to go, Sansa."

He wanted to brush past her, but she grabbed his arm, "Just listen to me."

He stopped and gave her a chance, but his expression said he was still ready to argue. It infuriated her when he already had his mind made up before considering her opinion. She wanted to be listened to, and if she was honest, she wanted to be right. She enjoyed the game sometimes, and she enjoyed when she succeeded in persuading someone. But all the lessons that Littlefinger and Cersei had taught her seemed to bounce straight off Jon.

"Jon, it really doesn't have to be you. I know you think it does, but-" Sansa started again.

"We need this alliance, Sansa. The fastest way to get that is a king and a queen talking to each other directly. Not through someone else," Jon insisted.

She shook her head, he didn't understand, "What if you don't come back, Jon? Where does that leave the North? Where does that leave me?"

Jon frowned. He didn't have an answer straight away like usual. He stared at her with an indiscernible look for a moment, "The North will rally around you. They already trust you and for good reason. You are a better Lady of Winterfell than I am a King. And there are others who know about the threat beyond the wall. Tormund, Sam, and others who can counsel you. And I have faith that Lady Brienne can protect you." He searched her eyes, trying to see if he had missed anything. What else did she mean?

She looked at him, trying to find the right words to make him stay. Gods he reminded her so much of father. He had the same severity and wretched honor. Of all her brothers, somehow the bastard had ended up the most like Ned Stark.

Sansa's eyes found the ground. She was a bit afraid to admit what she was most afraid of after all because it showed quite a bit of weakness, "I don't want to be the last Stark... I don't want to be alone."

Jon pulled her into a hug. He kissed her forehead, "I believe that Arya and Bran are still alive."

It was painful to admit, but "I don't."

Jon gave a her a small, sad smile as he still held her in his arms. They hadn't ever been close as children. She'd followed her mother and held Jon at an arm's length distance away. When she'd seen him at Castle Black she was surprised by how much she had missed him, and part of her attributed it to the brokeness after Ramsey. But she'd clung onto him for dear life because he was the only family she had left in this world. She remembered feeling so safe and secure in his arms, and she felt it here now and every time. She had worried that maybe he wouldn't be so happy to see her that maybe he wished Arya had found him instead.

But they'd grown closer than they ever had. The last Starks of Winterfell. He was quickly becoming her best friend, and part of her wished she'd known Jon more before she left for King's Landing. And yet she knew they were two entirely different people standing here today than when they were last home together. Jon had grown into a man, and she admired him. He was brave, too brave, and strong. As much as it worried her, she was glad that he would fight in the battlefield alongside his men. It made her proud even if it meant she couldn't sleep. Sometimes she watched him train. He could always win, but so often he would train the younger boys with such... gentleness. And that's what he would show Sansa after their arguments and bickering. A kiss on the forehead. A delivery of lemon cakes.

She changed the subject, putting back on a little more of her reserved exterior, "And you're sure you trust me with Winterfell?"

In her mind, she felt it was a show of weakness on his part even in some very small way to walk away and leave the throne to someone who had been squabbling with him about power for over a month. He either didn't see her as a threat, which was insulting and naive. Or he trusted her not to betray him, and he should know better by now to not trust anyone.

Jon gave a little chuckle, but when their eyes met his were serious, "Shouldn't I, Sansa?"

She could read him. He was looking for something... proof that he could, maybe. His eyes held a warning. He knew that she could very well dethrone him. He knew she was capable of betraying him. But he was hoping she wouldn't. It was almost a test. And Sansa realized she had forgotten one last character trait that perhaps, despite their intellect, she wouldn't have attributed to her father or Robb: Jon was smart.

"Of course," she assured him. She almost wanted to say no. She fake incompetence in order for him to stay.

She knew her mother had pleaded with her father not to leave Winterfell. She pleaded with him to come home. He never did. Sansa felt like if she let go of Jon's arm she would never see him again, and the pain in her chest made her uncomfortable. She knew how to play the game. She knew if you had something to lose you had already lost, and here her something to lose wanted to walk directly into the fire, literally.

Down the hall Ser Davos called, "Your Grace?"

Sansa tried to step away, sure, that her conversation had done nothing. Jon was Jon, stubborn as always, and Jon was leaving. She needed to get used to him not being around. She needed to be strong.

But Jon kept her close. His hands still on her arms, holding her. He caught her eye and with as much intensity and sincerity as he could muster he said, "I will do my best to come home for you, Sansa. I promise."

For a moment she almost believed it could be true. Jon was smart, she reminded herself. But Jon was also brave and honorable, and brave and honorable men do stupid things to get themselves killed. She nodded at him, though.

She watched as he walked away. A big mess of furs. She wanted to remember what he was like in case he didn't come back.

Later Sansa watched as he left. Jon climbed on his horse. He looked over his shoulder at her one last time. She kept her expression reserved, but she hoped that something in her gaze would make him keep his promise. If Sansa was being honest, it would have been better if she had never found Jon. It would have been better if she had had to put herself back together after Ramsey by herself. It would have been better if she had starting ruling the North without him. It would have been better to have nothing than to have something to lose; she didn't want to have to let someone go again, not after their reunion and taking back their home and starting to rebuild the life she never thought she wanted: Lady of Winterfell.

He rode away, and she tried to tell herself that she would never see him again. She hated the hope inside her. It made her weak. It meant she could break.

While Jon was gone, she fell into the role of Queen of the North easily enough. She tried to operate like he wasn't a factor. She tried to like being alone. She tried to like ruling the North by herself and living in her home by herself and being the last Stark. She tried to lie to herself that she liked it like this.

When Arya and Bran showed up, Sansa's heart swelled larger than she thought it could again. Jon had been right. They were alive! She'd written to him excitedly. He had been writing occasionally. It was both too often and too rare for her liking. Sansa had thought that her fears would lessen when Arya and Bran arrived. She wasn't afraid of being the last Stark anymore if Jon died.

But she was still... so afraid of losing him. The only man she could trust in the world, probably. She felt guilty sometimes that she still didn't.

Arya thought Sansa wanted the crown all to herself. She thought she wanted to usurp Jon. Sansa knew that couldn't be further from the truth. She enjoyed the power, yes, and she was good at it. She was good at being a lady or a queen, but every day that Jon was gone she felt more alone. Even with her sister, now a stranger, an assassin, and her brother, the Three-Eyed Raven. She missed Jon, and she couldn't possibly afford to do that. So she lied to herself that she liked it like this: Jon gone. And the stupid little girl who never learns had learned to lie so well that she could even throw off her sister, the apprentice of the faceless men.

* * *

This one-shot was inspired by "when the party's over" by Billie Eilish. Please let me know if I need to add clarifications before chapters of when in the timeline/if people know about Jon's true parentage. Let me know what one-shots you like the most and if there's any two-shots you would like to see. I usually sit down and write these in one sitting when the idea comes to me. I don't have a beta, so let me know if I need to more reviewing before posting as far as things not being clear/typos/etc. I'm just writing this for fun and to get Jonsa stuff out of my system.


	6. Northern Customs

Daenerys looked across the room at Jon Snow. The man who had become her lover not so long ago, and yet all this long journey to his home, she'd been able to be alone with him only 4 nights. Daario had freed all his nights for her, and while she knew there was a war approaching, something made her wonder what could be the reason for Jon's lack of interest.

He hadn't touched her since they'd arrived at his home. He'd been distant and busy. They hadn't shared a bed in a while. She hadn't known a man who needed the touch of a woman so little, and to tell the truth, she needed more.

Daenerys started to wonder the reason could be. Did he lose interest? Was he seeing another woman?

She hadn't seen Jon be affectionate with anyone but her and his family, and even then if she was honest with herself he was much more affectionate with them. An image always came to her mind when she was at her lowest. She remembered the way Jon's face lit up when he saw her. That red-haired beauty waiting for him with open arms. They'd hugged for a long while. Jon watched his sister's face more than he watched hers.

So in the middle of a meeting with Tyrion and Jon, when Sansa happened to be absent to deal with a quick emergency, she played with the idea. For fun, she decided to see if there was any truth to what she'd been wondering about for days.

"Jon..." she began, interrupting Tyrion. "Forgive me, but I am unfamiliar with Northern ways, is it common for siblings to marry in your family as well as it was in mine?"

Tyrion ruffled his brow, "Marry?" Daenerys could tell her question had surprised them both. It had come out of thin air, she knew, but still she demanded an answer.

"Um," Jon began. "No, sibling marriage is detested in all of Westeros."

"Yet Queen Cersei's lover is her twin brother, correct?"

Tyrion chimed in, "Well they are not married, your grace. And now my brother has come to see reason and valiantly joins the North-"

"Have you ever thought about it?" she tosses the question out like it's nothing. Her eyes stare into his. She knows something, she wants him to think she knows something.

And there's guilt there and shame. She can read it on his face for just a flash of a second before it turns to disgust and outrage, "Thought about marrying my sister? What are you asking for?"

"Forgive me, my lord, I only wished to know if you might be betrothed to Lady Sansa. I was to marry my brother Viserys after all. A Targaryen custom it seems that you Northerners do not keep. I meant no offense."

Jon looks at the ground. Then his eyes dart around. Finally he pulls himself together and starts talking about battle plans again with Tyrion.

But Tyrion looks at her with a question, and then he looks at Jon. He's discovered something. She has too.

And it's only confirmed once Lady Sansa walks into the room once more and asks, "What did I miss?"

Jon won't even look up from the table, and his face turns slightly red. He gruffly responds, "Nothing."

And Daenerys knows.

She knows why his affections are sparse and fleeting. She knows why it doesn't feel like she has his heart - because it belongs to someone else, someone he can't ever have.


	7. Winter is Coming

Bran flew overhead. He saw them coming. With their black and red dragon banners. The Dothraki in warmer clothes than usual, but Bran still knew they'd be well underdressed for the harsh winter to come.

He looked up at his sister, not a raven anymore, "They're almost here."

Sansa smiled grimly. She ordered a few more things to be in place. Finally looking around she huffed, "Where's Arya?"

Arya appeared like out of thin air beside him, and he remembered when she'd pushed him aside before and scowled, "Move!" Bran wanted to go back to that time in his mind, but he was the Three-Eyed Raven and the Three-Eyed Raven didn't visit the past for nostalgic reasons.

* * *

Jon can't help but to rush ahead on horseback when Winterfell's gates are in site. He and Daenerys had agreed that traveling together sends a better message, but he couldn't make himself stay beside her when his family was so close. Jon wasn't sure if he'd see Winterfell or his family again. At first, he thought the Mad King's Daughter would kill him for not bending the knee. Then he thought maybe she'd never let him leave - keep him as a prisoner, a ward-of-sorts. When he'd gone beyond the Wall again, there were so many times he'd thought he'd never make it back here. But Uncle Benjen had saved him, and Jon still mourned his death.

When he entered the gates, he saw his family. Sansa stood tall and regal. Her red hair gleamed in traditional Northern braids. A girl a bit shorter dressed in men's clothes stood beside her. Jon still recognized her face; they both had that distinct Stark look. Arya. The blade he'd ordered special for her, Needle, still slung at her side. He noticed a fancy dagger on her other hip. She held herself with a poise and a confidence he didn't recognize. Next to her, a boy turned man sat in a wheelchair. Bran. But his eyes seemed to have a vacant quality Jon didn't remember of the boy who loved the climb; the boy he'd helped train and had told not to look away when father beheaded a deserter of the Night's Watch. Jon wondered what he had seen that would make his gaze so distant now.

Jon rushed to them. He wondered what they saw in him in return. This strange man - their brother, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the King in the North, the Bastard of Winterfell. A man with many more scars than he'd had when he left for the Wall. He imagined they all could say the same.

Arya ran to greet him. He could still pick her up and swing her around in a big hug. She laughed and there was a gleam in her eyes that reminded him of the rowdy little girl Arya had once been.

"I've missed you," she said into his furs.

He couldn't hold back his bright smile. A little laugh escaped his lips. He didn't want to admit that he thought he'd never see her again, so he agreed in response instead, "I've missed you too."

His heart swelled. It had been no secret when they were growing up that Arya was his favorite sibling, at least his favorite sister. Robb had been his best friend.

"I imagine you've been getting into plenty of trouble in your time away from home," he joked. The happiness actually reaching his eyes. It felt so good to be home and to be himself again.

"Seems you have too. You'll have to tell me how a sworn brother of the Night's Watch became King in the North," she teased back.

A part of him winced. He shouldn't be here. He never should've been here. This wasn't his to claim or give away. But instead of dwelling on those thoughts once more, he turned to Bran. He gave him a suffocating hug that Bran stiffly returned.

"Bran, how did you survive beyond the Wall?"

Bran states simply, "I became the Three-Eyed Raven."

Jon grins at him and blinks, unsure of what to say.

Sansa chimes in, "Bran is... different now."

Jon turns to her. She gives a little smile, and when his eyes lock with hers he can tell it's a true one. She's happy he's home, and there's something relieving about that because after what he did, he's not sure she would welcome him. He envelopes her in a hug, crashing her against his body. He's missed her too.

He nearly doesn't hear Bran say, "I need to speak with you, Jon."

He mumbles, "There will be time for that later."

Jon never wants to let go of her, but there really is only a certain amount of time it's acceptable to hug your sister in public, especially when she's not even the long lost one. He feels Sansa stiffen, and he begins to pull away.

* * *

Sansa soaks in Jon's embrace. It's been hard, here, on her own. Arya couldn't be more wrong; Sansa didn't wish for Jon to never come back, she didn't wish for the North to be all hers. Sansa missed his partnership; she missed sharing the burden with someone else. Most of all, she missed someone who always felt like family.

Even when they fought, she never worried Jon would harm her in any way. She had grown to trust him more than anyone else. Arya and Bran's arrivals had only cemented that. She had really thought for a moment that her sister might wish to harm her, and it embarrassed her. But she realized she'd never doubted Jon. And sometimes when she looked into Bran's eyes she didn't see an ounce of him there, not her mother, not her father, but when she looked at Jon she saw her father and all his influence.

She wondered sometimes if when he looked at her, he saw her mother as Littlefinger had. Surely if he did, it hurt Jon. She knew her mother had inflicted deep wounds that had lasted long past her death.

After Ramsay, Jon was there in a way that no one else and no one could be. She had flinched away at all touches, even his, for a while. But the first nightmare she had was terrible. She had screamed and cried and awoken the whole of Castle Black. Jon had rushed into her room and captured into his arms. Even as she clawed and scratched and kicked at him. He had whispered soothing words as he pet her hair. He let her cry as long as she needed; he helped her come down from her panic attack. He helped steady her breathing.

And when Sansa had asked him to stay even after she had calmed down and she had the good sense to blush about the whole affair, Jon didn't hesitate. He had gone to lay by the fire, but Sansa had grabbed his hand, wordlessly willing him to not leave her. So he had laid down on the cold, hard floor beside her bed and held her hand all night.

It was because of Jon that she had been able to stop flinching at every touch. She had even been able to initiate it with him. It was because of Jon that she was able to sleep at home - the home where all of the terrible nightmares had really happened. When he had decided to leave, she hadn't wanted to burden her King but she had worried she wouldn't be able to sleep the whole time he was gone. She had wondered who would comfort her if one her attacks came.

Just having Jon safe and at home, she felt lighter like she could breathe more easily.

She was angry with him, yes. She didn't understand his decisions fully, and she had wished he would have allowed her to be more involved. She had wished he wouldn't have given away their home. He left quite a mess for her while he was away, but she was glad that at least now he was here to help clean it up - that they could tackle problems and face their enemies as a team again. They were stronger together. He'd been in a weak position alone and in the South. After all, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. They were only stronger with Bran and Arya here too.

She was aware of how long the hug was continuing, and she was aware of the eyes starting to stare. She lifted her gaze, but still didn't allow any distance between them. Then she saw the dragon queen approaching. She was beautiful with silver hair and purple eyes. Sansa eyed her and she felt her body stiffen.

Jon pulled away and turned to look behind him. It was almost as if he'd forgotten why he was there. It was protocol to kneel before the Queen or King. Sansa waited and watched Jon out of the corner of her eye. She would not kneel unless he did. She hoped he would not.

Daenerys Targaryen approached them with her man at her side. A few paces back a woman called out loudly all of her titles, "This is Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."

It was a very long list of titles. Sansa found it humorous that a woman who had spent all her life in Essos claimed to rule the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. She had never met these peoples. She probably scarcely knew the difference, and here she was to be our Queen.

As the dragon queen approached, Sansa kept her face icily composed.

No one had knelt.

Sansa remembered well when King Robert had rode in with Queen Cersei so many moons ago. All their people, led by her father, had knelt when King Robert had approached. No one had knelt for Jon. He was no longer a king. But Jon had not knelt, even though his letter had said he'd bent the knee, and so she and their people did not kneel either.

Sansa didn't know what this meant for them. Would the Queen find this offensive? Did she not know the customs well enough to be offended? Surely, her advisors would. She hoped at least the northern lords would take notice that neither she or their former king had knelt before this mother of dragons.

The Queen finally arrived right in front of Sansa. She stood easily next to Jon. She didn't seem tense, Sansa noted. Sansa could feel Jon's eyes on her.

"Winterfell is yours, your Grace," Sansa spoke in a practiced way. She had practiced it several times. She'd practiced how to hide the anger and betrayal and suspicion. She couldn't give away her position so easily.

"Thank you..." Daenerys began with a polite smile.

"Lady Sansa of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell," Jon informed her.

"Where's the imp?" Arya asked of Sansa in a teasing way. They remembered their banter the last time royalty came to Winterfell. Arya asking too many questions and Sansa always telling her to shut up.

Tyrion appeared then, waddling toward them with all his usual confidence, "Ah my darling wife."

She sensed Jon tense up beside her, but she paid it no mind. Perhaps he was just sensitive about these subjects, worried it would send her into another panic.

Tyrion took Sansa's hand and planted a sweet kiss on it, "I am glad to see you have survived my family after all."

Sansa smiled at him, and she felt it was genuine, "I am glad you have survived your family as well. I thank you for the kindness you showed me when we were married."

She wanted to say that she wished they could have remained married. But she didn't want to give the wrong impression. She didn't love Tyrion Lannister. She wasn't sure she could love anyone ever. She had thought she'd loved Joffrey, and then she had hated him. She hadn't liked Tyrion, the ugly imp, but he had been kind. Littlefinger had been in love with her, and she'd allowed him to believe she could return the feelings some day. Worst of all was Ramsay. A man who couldn't love. A man who taught her what her life with Joffrey could've been and how foolish she was to dislike Tyrion. She would give anything to have never married anyone but him because he had been kind. But would she ever love him or anyone else? No, she didn't think she could.

The only people she trusted now were her wolf pack. Jon, Arya, and Bran. Arya less-so sometimes, but it seemed like Bran could always straighten them out again if they got caught up in their own schemes. Always Jon, though.

And yet... she found herself wondering if she could trust him anymore... at least with political affairs. He'd given away their home.

"I think it's time to pay my respects," Jon says in his gruff northern accent. "Come with me to the crypts?" He looks to his siblings, hopefully.

Sansa nods, and Arya moves to push Bran.

"Jon," Daenerys begins, and Sansa prickles at the familiarity of it. "We've been riding for a month. Surely the dead who still remain in their tombs can wait. Should we not begin wartime preparations?"

Jon looks at her, "Aye, we have been riding a long while. Some rest and food and ale will do us all some good for the night. We can begin in the morning."

It wasn't a question, and he doesn't wait for her response before turning his back and heading toward the crypts with Bran and Arya.

Sansa orders that the Queen and her people be showed to their rooms, and then she follows after her pack.


	8. A Prisoner's Story

A quiet and yet somehow still firm knock sounded at her door. Sansa was sewing by the fire. She hadn't been able to sleep well. She could still see the beasts swirling overhead and hear the thundering roar from their snouts; it haunted her - the image of such terrible danger above her home, especially after they had just gotten it back.

She set down her work and made way toward the door. She was in her night clothes already, but she still had furs draped around her. It grew colder still every day. When she cracked the door open, she still didn't know who she expected to be standing there.

It was who she hoped it would be: Jon.

And yet as images of their fight earlier today flashed through her mind, she sighed. She wasn't up for another argument, even though she still had much, much more to say.

Jon's eyes were gentle, almost sad as they looked at the floor and then up at her, "I've not come here to fight."

She nodded and let him pass into the room. She closed the door carefully.

He took a seat beside the fire as he done many nights before. She'd grown used to spending nights with Jon. They both had demons haunting their dreams; they both had trouble sleeping. Even back at Castle Black they had started this habit. Talking by the fire or just sitting in silence. Sansa would sew sometimes. Jon would fade off to sleep at moments only to wake up again. It was nice to just not be alone. It was nice to share some company with someone who could be trusted, someone familiar.

She took her seat again and picked up her sewing once more.

For a while they just sat there. The crackling of the fire and the light tapping of her needles the only sound between them.

Finally Jon turned and looked at her, "How have you been sleeping?"

She gave a small half-smile. It was just like him to wonder about things like that. To check up on her so carefully. "Not well. If I'm honest," she admitted.

He frowned.

"Me either."

She frowned, a bit surprised, "Well you were a prisoner, I suppose."

"Aye," he looked down at the floor.

She studied him. Perhaps she had misjudged him too quickly earlier today. She'd been so angry, demanding an explanation about giving away their independence. She'd had to kill Littlefinger and secure the Vale to stop him from going after Jon. She'd had to placate the northern lords and ladies. Every day he spent away, they grew more and more restless. She'd prayed that Littlefinger had not been right that Jon wanted to marry Daenerys. The lords would not accept another King in the North marrying a foreigner; they certainly wouldn't follow someone who made them ride South. She'd been so angry he had made so many decisions without her, and she'd been so worried he'd made the wrong ones. After all, she couldn't clean up all his messes, and she desperately wanted to keep him and the rest of her family safe.

But now looking at Jon, she realized he had been a prisoner. The way she'd been one in King's Landing. She recalled the letter she'd written to Robb asking him to pledge fealty to her beloved King Joffrey. Those words hadn't been her own. Jon had written her a similar letter about a truce with Cersei and pledging to Daenerys... if they survived the great war to come and the long night. She'd read it and thought she understood, but there had been a small part of that worried he hadn't listened to her. Maybe he truly had been seduced by the dragon queen. Maybe he really trusted Cersei.

He hadn't offered many explanations earlier. He'd been hurt by her accusations, and he'd lashed out a few times, insisting he did everything he did for the North.

"Jon..." she started.

He winced, sucking in air as if she were going to start a fight.

She frowned and softened her tone even more, "Tell me what you did. Tell me why."

He shut his eyes with a grimace.

She reached her hand out to his. Reassurance. "I've been a prisoner in the South, remember?"

He looked at their hands and then his eyes found hers. He nodded.

When he looked away and stayed silent for a while, she thought he wouldn't open up to her. She racked her brain for how to convince him. Did he not trust her anymore?

Finally he let out a long breath, "I tried to be honest. At first. But she didn't know me. The meeting - it did not go well. She didn't believe me, and she wanted me to bend the knee right away. Just like that. I wanted to leave, to go home. I'd almost given up, but I thought I could try to figure out how to talk to her. Tyrion - he helped a little. He got her to let us mine the dragonglass."

"He's a reasonable man," she murmured.

Jon nodded, "And I tried to heed his advice. I studied her advisors, those closest to her. I tried to talk of her dragons, to make a connection."

Sansa smiled a tiny upturn of her lips. Jon had been listening to her. He had been learning.

"And I did. I-I even felt it..." his words fell off. "There was this moment I-I wasn't thinking but I reached out to lay my hand on the snout of one of her great beasts."

Sansa sat up a little more rigid, and admonished him, "Jon!"

A little smirk fell across his lips at her reaction, "Aye, I know. A foolish thing to do. But... something about the dragons reminded me of... Ghost."

Sansa's forehead wrinkles a little bit.

"I could tell she felt the-the connection I had with her dragon, her children. It brought us closer. And still, still she didn't believe me. Still she wanted me to bend the knee. Always concerned with Cersei. Everything I said, everytime I tried to persuade her, always it went back to bending the knee, to Cersei. And I would never, never allow the North to be called South to fight in a war for a throne we don't care about. Especially when the real threat is so close."

"But did bend the knee, eventually. Why?"

"Dany," he started, and Sansa was struck by the familiarity in his tone.

"She started to seek my counsel, even over Tyrion's, her Hand's. She accused him of plotting to save his family in front of all her advisors, in front of me. She was losing. All their plans had failed. She wanted to take her dragons and burn the Red Keep to the ground. She wanted to kill millions of people."

Sansa sucked in a breath.

"I urged her not to. I tried all the ways I'd seen people get through to her. She likes to think of herself as... a savior, the rightful heir, as someone who makes the impossible happen. I told her she wouldn't be different if she burned cities to the ground," he gulped, and there was pain in his eyes, guilt even. "She listened, but she took her dragons to the Lannister army who had attacked the Tyrells... she burned men alive, I know. I saw the look on Tyrion's face when he returned, even though he tried to hide it. It must've been terrible to see. And I heard, I heard that she burned men alive for not bending the knee. Sam's arsehole of a father, but his younger brother too. The future of House Tarly wiped out. Burned alive."

There was disgust in his voice, and Sansa felt fear rise in her throat. These same beasts flew overhead her home now.

"She could've beheaded them. Taken them prisoner. But she burned them alive. An awful way to go. And what's more? She burned all the food they'd taken from the Reach. Her armies were already starving. And Winter is Coming. A longer winter than we've seen. The Reach yields the largest harvest in all of Westeros and she burned it all without second thought before winter."

Sansa looked down. Only a fool would do such a thing. Only a madman.

"Even still, I saw she had, she has a good heart. She wants to do the right thing," he insisted. "And I thought I could, I don't know, I thought I could help her make those choices."

Sansa wanted to interrupt and tell him he was being foolish. But Jon was opening up so much, and she didn't want him to stop.

"I saw how she looked at me," Jon admitted. "Ser Davos even made jokes of how I looked at her."

Sansa looked down. After all this, he had been seduced?

"I still felt... some pull toward her. I still don't know why. But I, I met someone she loves. Ser Jorah. The way she listened to him, how warm she was with him, I hadn't seen that side of her before. I wondered if we could develop that kind of warmth. Maybe that could help save the North..."

"You're telling me you bedded her to save the North?" Sansa rolled her eyes.

Jon's face reddened, "Well, I won't deny I have some... feelings for her. I do. But you have to understand, she never believed me. She still always worried about Cersei. I had to go beyond the Wall to retrieve a wight to convince Cersei to agree to an armistice. An armistice I knew she would never honor even if she agreed. Dany lost a dragon in the process... a dragon the Night King now has, I'm sure. She had pledged her forces to the North to defeat the Night King, but I didn't trust her to follow through. Especially if Cersei attacked from the South as I knew she would. So I..."

His words stopped tumbling out of his mouth. Sansa's eyebrows creased. She reached for his hand again.

"I bent the knee," he gulped. "It wasn't official. It was private, and I thought maybe honor would allow me to pledge only myself not the North to her."

Sansa looked down sadly.

"But I had to say it at the armistice. Cersei wanted the North to remain neutral. I couldn't lie. Dany wouldn't trust me. And there was truly no point in convincing Cersei other than Dany coming North. Cersei left without a peace deal. Immediately Dany took back her words. She still spoke of how she couldn't march North and ignore the threat to the South. Nothing was enough. And I couldn't let her take our armies South. Tyrion convinced his sister to agree. I don't know if he's a fool or if he's just not told Dany but... it must be an empty peace."

Sansa nodded, "But she's North now, Jon. With her dragons. You played the game... in your own way. You got her here. "

"Aye," he looked down at the floor. "And I bedded her to make sure I did."

There was great shame in his features. Sansa bristled. She had known. How could she not have known? With the familiarity, with the way his queen looked at him? But it still hurt her in a way she hadn't expected.

"I _do_ have feelings for her. It's not all a ruse. I just... I wouldn't have acted on them. I really wouldn't have if I didn't think I had to. How foolish have I been, Sansa?"

A smile tugged at her lips, "Well, what's important is that you're safe and you're home. And you've brought reinforcements to help keep the North safe."

"I've given away our home. After we've just got it back," he said sourly, repeating the words she'd said to him, dripped in venom, earlier.

She had no words for that. She was still angry about that, but now she understood why he'd done it.

"But listen, Sansa. You're my heir. If I fall... it was never very official. She can't expect- You need to start planning. She could become an enemy, easily. You need to be ready."

Her breath caught. His words weren't fully computing. She knew everything he said. Perhaps she'd even thought it through herself. But hearing him say it, it made it more real.

"Jon..." she began. "Why... why did you write "If we survive."'

It's a question that had been bugging her for a while. She knew the answer deep down. She was too good at the game to not know the answer.

"Because I don't plan to."


	9. Warrior of Winterfell

The army of the dead had been spotted on the move. They neared every day. Closer and closer to Winterfell. Jon had planned out the defenses. He'd rallied the troops, and he hoped they were ready for this. He moved quickly toward the lord's chambers, toward his sister who, for all her fierceness and deathly intelligence, could not wield a sword in this battle. He'd drawn up plans to protect her - Brienne would stay by her side and Ghost too as well as many other men who were to defend Winterfell is the strike outside it's gates could not defeat their enemy.

He knocked on the door, and barely waited for an answer before bursting in. There wasn't time for anything. He had to say goodbye.

Sansa turned around suddenly, "Oh it's just you, Jon." She was buttoning the very last button on the top of her dress.

It was a new dress. Black. Leather. Armor. Jon thought it must have been her finest work. Something about the dress seemed familiar to him too. She was radiant: the warrior of Winterfell. Jon knew she would keep their people together and restore the North; she had to survive even if he didn't.

Suddenly he realized he hadn't said a word. His mouth had hung open. His eyes rovering over her body in a way that a brother-a cousin's eye should not. She looked too good to be going into battle. She looked too good to die.

"Do you like it?" Sansa asked, and his cheeks went pink knowing she'd caught him staring.

His mouth was dry, but he managed to grunt out a response, "Aye."

She smiled and looked down at the dress, smoothing it a little. "Good. I hope you don't mind - I repurposed your old black armor from the Night's Watch."

Jon gulped. He felt something squeeze in his chest. Something felt right about knowing she wore something of his.

But he didn't respond, and Sansa began to frown, fearing he actually did mind. And that couldn't be further from the truth.

"No," he insisted, taking a step forward. "No, it looks better on you anyway."

She blushed a little, averting her eyes.

"I'm glad you'll have some protection," Jon offered.

There was sounds of shouting outside in the courtyard. A horn blasted three times. Jon's eyes met hers with intensity. They were here. It was time for him to go. He stood there for a moment, willing the words he wanted to say out of his mouth.

"I-" he took a step forward. Nothing seemed right. She knew didn't she? She knew he wanted to protect her. She knew he loved her - she didn't know how much or in what manor, but she knew. She knew she was his family, and that he needed her to survive. She knew he'd do his best to protect their home and her and their family, and that he would try to come back but he wasn't sure if he would.

Should he spoil the moment by sharing his other feelings? The ones he had pushed down deep inside. The ones that set his chest on fire, his heart beating so quickly he could hear it in his ears.

There was a knock at the door. Loud, pounding. "Lord Snow?" someone called.

Their gaze was broken, and Jon began to turn around, deciding maybe the words were meant to be left unsaid.

But Sansa dashed forward and grabbed his arm. She spun him around and into her embrace. He hugged her tightly, and he thought how he couldn't believe he was about to leave this room to a likely death without holding her in his arms one last time. She was always proving how she was smarter than him. He could've stayed there, holding her for hours. His arms seemed to be stuck around her like he wouldn't ever be able to let go.

She pulled back slightly, and Jon was sorry for the loss of contact. But he knew it was time for him to go.

Her arms stayed around his neck, and this surprised Jon. He left his own hands around her waist, searching her eyes for something. A tear escaped from her eye, and Jon moved a hand to gently wipe it away. Then he couldn't help himself but stroke her cheek gently.

He was about to kiss her forehead, when she leaned forward and brought her lips to his.

He was shocked, and for a moment he didn't know what to do - was this a dream? Then he relaxed into the embrace and brought her even closer to him. When they broke the kiss, they were both gasping for air. Lightheaded both from the kiss and the feeling of knowing their love was not unrequited after all.

"I love you," she mouthed against his lips.

He touched her forehead with his own and smiled widely. In the midst of chaos and doom and death, he was able to find joy and it was all because of her. Only because of her.

He kissed her deeply again, and when he pulled back breathless he whispered, "I love you too."

She brought a hand to stroke his face and tilt his head to look her in the eyes, "Come back to me." She was serious now.

Jon kissed her neck right below her ear and breathed out, "I will try."

But she yanked his head back by his hair, and there was something fierce in her eyes, "No."

She was of the North - the land of unforgiving winds and cruel ice and protective dire wolves. "Come back," she demanded. "Promise me, Jon."

Jon was shocked, and even though the Night King marched on their home, a little scared. He knew if he didn't come back, she'd kill him herself. It only made him love her even more. He wanted this. He wanted to be able to come back and to have this life with her that he'd dreamed of - a life he never thought he could have. If only he'd known sooner...

"I will," he promised, even though it broke his heart. He might have just lied to her. He hoped he had not. Maybe that would get him through this war afterall, the promise of Sansa waiting for him with her love and the fear of breaking his promise to her.

When he finally left her room, Sansa stared after him. She worried for him. Had this new declaration been a mistake? Would it keep his mind off what was important? She hoped it wouldn't jumble his thoughts. She hoped it would only show him he had something to live for.

But Jon had promised her, she reminded herself. He would keep his promise.

A small part of her in the back of her mind knew that Jon couldn't make such a promise, and that Jon had learned to lie. She'd taught him herself. But still she hoped. That's all she could do.


	10. Lie

Snow crunched under her feet as she made her way to the godswood. She could hear him approaching behind her. She was glad they might finally be alone. Maybe she could finally demand all the answers he'd failed to provide her.

"Sansa, I-" he began but he couldn't finish his thought.

She waited a moment and then spun around, presenting him with her Lady of Winterfell mask. She was stone cold - as frigid as ice and as vicious as the winter wind. When his eyes met hers, she saw hurt there. Jon wore no mask with her, and they both hated that she had put hers on to greet him, even here alone as they were.

"Why?" her voice was calm, like the calm before a storm.

"We need her dragons and her armies if we are going to survive this fight. We need powerful allies-"

She cut him off, "Don't give me the same explanation you gave our liege lords, Jon. Tell me why. Tell me the truth."

Jon looked down, and when his eyes met hers again, he took three stride forward. Their faces were inches away and his voice dropped low. He was still afraid of being overheard, even here, where the Stark children - and Littlefinger when he'd been alive - only ever ventured, "Everything I did, I did for the North, for... our family."

"And yet you still won't explain exactly what you did," she was growing impatient, the bite in her tone frustrated him.

"It might be better if you don't know some things," he said with eyes to the ground and brow furrowed.

Her tone was accusatory now, " _You_ said that we needed to _trust_ each other, Jon. I need to know why you gave away your crown. Why you gave away the North's independence. The independence Robb and my mother died for. Why you gave away our home."

Anger flared up in him, "Do you think I wanted to, Sansa? I tried to persuade her. I tried to play the game like you wanted me to."

"No, what I wanted was for you to never go in the first place. Then we wouldn't be in this position," she retorted, her own anger rising.

He sucked in a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at her, "You know I had to go. You know we didn't have enough men on our own. You know we needed the dragon glass."

She was about to snarl something back at him. But there was a look in his eyes that stopped her. There was one small moment that pleaded with her to see his side. She looked off to the side and reset her face. "Fine," she said, turning back to him. "So you bent the knee to get the dragons and the dragon glass then?"

"I..." he began. "I already had the dragon glass."

She raised an eyebrow, "You know what some are saying of you, your grace? That you bent the knee to the beautiful foreign invader because you're in love with her. They say you're a lovesick fool."

He scowled. His gaze averted hers. The way he shifted uncomfortably, she knew she'd struck some kind of truth.

She huffed, "Honestly, Jon? Do you not listen to me at all? Robb-"

Jon's head jerked to face her. He leaned in closer with intensity, "I do. I do listen to you."

She laughed in his face, "I don't recall counseling you to bed the dragon queen."

"I did what I had to do..."

Suddenly Sansa felt cold, cold from the inside out. Her body felt frozen. The confirmation from him. She'd assumed, but... knowing it was truth, somehow it hit her harder than she thought it would. She felt a deep hurt overtaking her, and she didn't quite understand it.

In a rush it was replaced with a boiling hot rage, an anger, and something possessive... something that felt strikingly similar to jealousy. But she didn't have time to qualify her feelings, and instead she lashed out, "Yes, I'm sure it was rather unpleasant to fuck a beautiful woman."

If he was shocked at her use of foul language, he didn't show it, "She wasn't going to help us. She'd seen the Night King and his army and still she wouldn't listen-"

"So you whored yourself out to her?"

"I was a prisoner there, Sansa! She had burnt others alive for not bending the knee!"

The ragged look in his eyes. The desperation pushed her back into those long-forgotten memories of her time in King's Landing. She'd been a prisoner once before. She'd been forced to betray her family - Arya had seen the letter she'd written calling Father a traitor. She remembered calling Joffrey her beloved, reassuring others that she was loyal to her king always. Sansa knew in her heart she'd never meant it; she'd always been a Stark.

And Jon was a Stark, at least to her.

Her gaze softened. She felt stupid for not realizing before. She had hoped he had played the game, but when Sansa saw how familiar their new queen was with Jon, she'd feared the worst.

The anger seemed to slowly dissipate out of him, leaving someone broken behind. If Jon had been a prisoner, he hadn't wanted the dragon queen. He had been forced to bend the knee. He'd been forced to give up his pride, his honor to save himself and his people.

She reached out to him suddenly. Her Lady of Winterfell mask was gone, and it was just Sansa and Jon. She embraced him tightly.

He pulled her even closer. With his arms wrapped around her, she didn't feel cold at all anymore. His beard scratched her cheek lightly. She nuzzled his neck as he let out a very shaky breath.

"I'm so sorry, Sansa."

"I understand now," she said simply, rubbing his back comfortingly.

"There was no official pledge of fealty. And with the war to come... it's likely I won't make it anyway," he explained to her.

She pulled back a little to see his face, to tell him that wasn't acceptable. He had to make it out alive. She needed him. But she couldn't find the words, and he smiled down sadly at her.

Then he kissed her forehead, like he'd done before. With his hands gently holding her face and his lips against her forehead, Sansa felt loved.

He pulled back. There was a question in his eyes and then a flash of something else. Jon tried to pull away from her. But she held him close.

His hands wavered near her hips, but they didn't touch her. Her hands clung onto his sides. They were inches apart. Her breath mingled with his as their eyes bore into each other.

Sansa didn't know why her eyes flickered to his lips, but she saw his eyes on her own lips as well. She could feel something in the air. Anticipation. Without even thinking about it, the distance between them began to close. Her eyelids fluttered closed...

"Jon," a voice called.

They both started, almost jumping away from each other. Jon turned away and kept his eyes trained on the ground. There was a blush forming on his face. His brow furrowed, and he didn't even look to see who had called to him.

Sansa regained her composure easier. Her heart raced beneath her chest at the scare. But she'd put her Lady of Winterfell mask on quickly. From the lack of contact, she felt cold again, colder than she remembered feeling.

It was Arya who had interrupted them. She watched them with careful eyes and a blank face, "The dragon queen has been asking after you."

Arya eyed the pair of them, shifting her gaze from Jon who looked noticeably guilty to Sansa, "Was I interrupting something?"

Sansa knew this game. Arya's game of faces. She knew she couldn't fool her sister. But Jon hadn't spent a lot of time with the new Arya, the assasin who was their sister, the young woman who had slit a throat without so much as a blink. The one who had come for House Frey.

"No," he said even as he averted his gaze. Then he let out an unintelligible cross between a huff and a growl and made his way out the godswood back to the dragon queen.

Sansa didn't watch him go. She stared down her sister, hoping that maybe she could be a good enough liar this time.

But Arya did watch Jon leave, and she turned to Sansa with a frown, "Lie."


	11. Nightmares

Daenerys stood at the front of the small room. Her most trusted advisors gathered around her: Missandei, Grey Worm, Tyrion, Jorah, and Varys. They'd had many meetings with Jon Snow and his advisors, but this one was meant to be private.

"Lord Varys," she asked, and the Spider stepped forward. "What do you know of Lady Sansa?"

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably next to her. No one had missed the hint of distaste in her voice. It was no secret that the Queen and the Lady of Winterfell had not been getting along quite as well as they had hoped. Daenerys didn't quite know what to do with this lady who stared at her with a cold, piercing gaze that away no thoughts in her head. Sure, Lady Sansa had provided all the pleasantries necessary, but no one truly believe she had meant them. And then there were small, insignificant slights when Lady Sansa would challenge her supposed new queen in front of the rest of the lords and ladies of the North. The counsel meetings were worse; there had been many a time where Daenerys had felt shown up by her.

Daenerys had always thought herself to believe in strong women. She wanted to empower women who were once slaves to be free, those who had been subjected to rape or sexual abuse to take ownership of their bodies once more. But she supposed she had never met a lady like Sansa Stark. Someone who was loved so greatly by her people and yet could strike fear in many a man... including her brother, Jon Snow.

Perhaps that was the true issue, Daenerys mused. Sansa Stark seemed to have her clutches on Jon Snow. No matter how many nights Daenerys and Jon spent together or how much she felt they were building love and trust, she still noticed the way he conferred with Sansa first. When a tough decision was to be made, his eyes couldn't help but find her. When there was tension in the air, she could feel him ready to spring to action to defend his sister.

She thought sometimes she saw him staring after his sister. Sometimes it seemed they would share an embrace too long. He'd kiss her forehead with more feeling than he made love to Daenerys.

"She is the eldest of the trueborn Stark children that remain. She serves as Lady of Winterfell and is greatly loved by her people. They say she rebuilt their very walls and spirits along with them. Her mother was Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully, so she has strong connections with Riverrun as well as the The Vale. Her Aunt Lysa married Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon, and their son, her cousin, is heir to The Vale. Lady Sansa was formerly betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon and then wed to Lord Tyrion, an unconsummated affair, then she was wed to Lord Ramsay Bolton, formerly a bastard-" Varys stated.

"If I wanted a history lesson, I'd have asked Tyrion," Daenerys was growing impatient. The spider knew what his value was - information that was not written in the history books.

"Of course, my queen," he bowed. "Lady Sansa's former husband, Ramsay Bolton, had taken Winterfell. The servants still whisper of the tortures he inflicted on servants, prisoners, and his wife. They still talk of the screams from her room at night and the blood in her bath every morning."

All eyes fell to the floor. Tyrion shifted uncomfortably.

Daenerys met his eyes, "Continue."

"Some sing songs of how she escaped in the night to find her brother Jon at Castle Black. And how together they rallied the North and the wildlings to take back their home. Some say Jon Snow would have killed Ramsay Bolton with his own bare hands until Lady Sansa intervened. They say she fed him to his own hounds and watched as they tore the flesh from his bones."

"Surely these are tall tales!" Tyrion insisted, surprised at such a vicious description associated with his former wife. He remembered her as a sweet and innocent little girl.

"I'm afraid I don't think so. Lady Sansa has much changed since her time in King's Landing. Some wish to call her Queen in the North, though she is always steadfastly supportive of her dear brother."

"Anything else?" Daenerys questions, knowing that Varys always has something more. She can see the gleam in his eye. He loves knowledge; he loves having the power of secrets.

"Some of the maid servants have grown quite suspicious of her nightly activities. They whisper that they've heard screams from her chambers late at night. And giggle that oftentimes Lord Snow enters her bedchambers late at night and does not leave until the early morning."

Daenerys tries to hide the anger and betrayal that crosses her face. She spins around, her back to her council.

"Servants love to talk, my queen," Tyrion shoots Varys a warning look. "Perhaps Lady Sansa simply has nightmares."

"Nightmares," she scoffs.

"My queen," Jorah offers. "Forgive me, but in the North what you assume is happening... it is forbidden. It is deeply frowned upon. I cannot imagine the sons and daughters of the most honorable Lord Eddard Stark to engage in such behavior."

Tyrion wanted to joke that the son and daughter of the Lord Tywin Lannister had engaged in such activities, and that it had brought great shame upon him and his name. But he thought his words would be better spent trying to ease his queen's anger instead, "The Starks do not see brother and sister the way Targaryens do. They never have."

"And yet, your brother and sister would wed if they could," Daenerys fires back.

"Ah yes, but one man is not another."

"Their union could band together the Vale, the riverlands, and the North, or have I misheard you, dear spider?"

"Theoretically yes, my queen, but I have to agree the likelihood-"

"That is all," Daenerys interrupts. "You are all free to go."


	12. The Lion and the Wolf

Long before the Dothraki and Unsullied graced the gates of Winterfell, the Spider sent soldiers of his own. They were soldiers who stalked the corridors at night and spies who blended seamlessly into the background. For a pretty penny or gods knew what other rewards, Varys' little birds squawked, and in return the Spider shared his findings with Tyrion – or at least he shared what pleased him. The spider spun his web of secrets and lies carefully; secrets could ensnare even the cleverest of men and this fact had allowed the Spider to survive through all the ever-changing rulers.

The Spider had waited to share one bit of news until they had reached Winterfell; he had wanted to see for himself if it was true, and now that he had, he shared his findings. Tyrion knew Varys did not present inaccurate information. That was bad business for a spymaster, and yet he still could not fully believe it.

"Sansa Stark?" Tyrion scoffed. "My sweet little wife?"

Varys shrugged, "It appears she is a babe in the woods no longer."

"And our dear friend Littlefinger is no longer," Tyrion quipped. "How do you think she managed to outsmart him?"

"You know as well as I that Lord Baelish had a certain obsession with Catelyn Stark. Sansa Stark looks every bit a Tully beauty from the South," Varys suggested.

"He may have had a soft spot for her, but still…" Tyrion wasn't unhappy to find Petyr Baelish dead. But he wasn't happy either to discover someone had outplayed him. At least with Lord Baelish, Tyrion knew what kind of man he was up against… if Sansa Stark had indeed outwitted Littlefinger and executed him, she was a very dangerous player in this great game indeed—and an unfamiliar one at that!

What's more, she had made her position clear from the moment his queen had set foot in Winterfell. The Lady of Winterfell had not bowed and neither had her people. She greeted Daenerys with a steely coldness that Tyrion had only ever seen in glimpses aimed at Joffrey.

"And did she take up a sword and cut his head from his neck herself?" Tyrion jested, trying to keep the tone light even on such a dark subject.

"They say the youngest sister, Lady Arya, sliced his throat in the Great Hall with his own Valyrian steel dagger," Varys informs him.

Tyrion's hand flies up to his throat without him thinking about it. He swallows and raises his eyebrows, "A deadly duo then."

Later that afternoon, Tyrion watched the men and women scramble about below. Everyone had work to do to prepare for the war to come. Sometimes Tyrion felt like he was the only person preparing for what happens after. He wondered if perhaps this new Sansa who was a stranger to him and had all the wits and grace and strength of a true Lady might be thinking of the future as well.

She was certainly preparing for the coming war. While her vocal concerns had very much exposed his queen, Tyrion could not deny that she was right. It would be impossible to feed the entire army and the dragons and the people of the North. They should have brought provisions… but Tyrion could not let himself remember why they had none to spare. He wanted to tuck that memory away and hope it had been only an anomaly.

Tyrion spotted Sansa with Lord Royce. He was just another reminder of who this new stranger was: the woman who used to be his innocent child-wife shaking in fear. Lord Royce was now her trusted advisor, and the Vale was ever-loyal to her. She had played her hand well, and in other circumstances he might have been proud. But there was no time for that now, especially when she so publicly opposed his queen.

As he approached he was struck with the memory of her mother, the fierce woman who had captured him so long ago. In certain moments he was sure he saw Catelyn Stark-come-again, and yet Sansa was far prettier. Perhaps Tyrion should have anticipated Sansa's transformation; she was both a Stark and a Tully after all. Her parents had been strong, graceful, honorable, loyal, and just. They'd been pretty smart, too, although quite terrible at playing the game.

Looking at Sansa his pride wounded further. Not anticipating her importance and role in Winterfell was another misstep for him. He seemed to be failing ever since his queen had landed in Westeros. His plans at Casterly Rock and those to lay siege to King's Landing had all ended disastrously; he'd been outplayed at every turn.

So Tyrion began to wonder if perhaps Sansa Stark had played him all along. Had she assisted in Joffrey's murder? Had she run off and left him to die without a care in the world? He immediately thought he couldn't blame her if she had because she had just been a child, but then he realized this kind of thinking just might have gotten Littlefinger killed.

Sansa presented him with a stony mask, and he wondered where she'd learned these tricks. Not for the first time he was made to think of his dearest diabolical sister when he watched Sansa Stark. In the great hall she had snarled and curled her lip while sarcastically asking what dragons eat in a way that made him think the girl had learned more from Cersei than any of them had known.


End file.
